


may the lost be found

by amuk



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Loss of Identity, Post-Canon, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: Miles had prepared himself for leaving the Briggs Fortress, for what it’d mean to go with Scar back to his ancestral homeland. What he hadn’t—couldn’t—prepare himself for was what would happen if Alex Armstrong to came to personally pick them up from the fortress.
Relationships: Alex Louis Armstrong & Olivier Mira Armstrong, Miles & Scar (Fullmetal Alchemist), Olivier Mira Armstrong & Miles
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	may the lost be found

**Author's Note:**

> For Blossoming, a FMA zine. I wanted to write a little post-series Miles, Armstrong, and Scar. Oh Jessica Jessica made some collab pieces to go with it!

The metal parapet clanged as they walked along the perimeter of the Briggs fortress. The harsh noise was muffled, the icy winds stealing the sharpness from the sound. Miles lowered his eyes to his feet, studying the contrast between his boots and the walkway. It was strange to think he wouldn’t hear this sound again for what could be years. He glanced to the side, at the piles of snow surrounding the fortress. While he wouldn’t miss the cold, he felt a little nostalgic at the sight of it.

Well, just a little nostalgic. The cold crept under his jacket, sinking into his bones, and if he never felt that again, it would be too soon. Not that he could say the same for the person walking in front of him. Olivier Armstrong strode forward as though even the cold was under her command. Knowing her, it was probably the case.

If he had one regret about his future undertaking, it was that he would have to leave her. There was something comforting about her rigid back, the power in her stride. His wife liked to joke that he had a little bit of a crush on her and perhaps she was right.

Suddenly, Olivier came to an abrupt stop and he followed suit. Standing stock still, she stared down at the gates to the fortress, her brow furrowing. “What is _that_ doing here?” Olivier asked, her voice soft, low, and utterly dangerous.

Nothing about that boded well. It was his last day at Briggs and he didn’t want to deal with the hassle. When she didn’t move, he reluctantly followed her gaze to the ground. In front of the gates, the winter sun gleamed as though reflected from a mirror. No, that wasn’t right, it was reflected off a bald head. A bald head on top of a blue suit.

Alex Armstrong. As soon as he thought the name, as though sensing it, Alex looked up. For a long second, they stared at each other, unblinking. A chill ran down Miles’s spine and he could feel a migraine forming. It didn’t take long for Alex to beam broadly and wave like a caffeine-addled chipmunk. “OLIVIER! THERE YOU ARE!”

He heard a crack next to him and slowly he looked to see his leader holding onto the rails tightly. She glared down at her brother but didn’t say anything. Undeterred, Alex only waved harder, almost like a puppy wagging its tail.

Once again, Miles wondered just how Olivier was related to her family. No one else seemed as strict or humourless as her. Rubbing his forehead with the pads of his fingers, he sighed and asked, “What do you want to do with him?”

She clenched her jaw, her brow furrowing as her brother started to jump up and down. “The buffoon is just here for you. He can wait out there until you leave.”

“He could die,” Miles pointed out. There was no way his military uniform was warm enough for the sub-zero temperature. Even more so if he flexed his muscles and burst his shirt, as he was prone to do.

Olivier’s eye twitched and she turned around, heading back inside. “The world isn’t so fortunate.”

-x-

There was stillness in the air as Miles approached Scar’s room. It was often quiet in the fort but this was something different, as though a sense of calm had seeped into the air, altering everything it came into contact with. The crunch of his boots, the click of his belt, even the beat of his heart sounded too loud.

Then again, it could have just been his imagination. No one else seemed to notice it, everyone casually approaching Scar as though he were just another soldier. Stopping at his door, Miles rapped it twice. The slightly ajar door swung back, opening without so much of a creak. Taking a deep breath, Miles stepped inside.

Seated cross-legged on the floor, Scar’s eyes were half-lidded as he soundlessly mouthed several prayers. Dressed in a simple tunic, he looked nothing like the soldier-killer of yore. His expression was gentle, his edges rounded out now that he ate consistently, and Miles could almost see the warrior-priest that Scar used to be.

Miles could almost see his grandfather, his eyes crinkling as he beckoned Miles to join him, a second golden sash in his hands. A rough hand guiding him through the prayers. As a kid, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with it, so impatient to run out and play. As an adult, he poured through the memories, absorbing every small detail of his lost culture he could find. When his grandfather’s blood stained the desert sands, the knowledge had been utterly lost in his family.

This was a sight he never thought he’d witness again. Even the smell was the same, a sweet incense wafting from three long sticks. Smoke billowed in the air, soft clouds of grey that gave a hazy feel to everything.

_Miles_ , his grandfather would chuckle, closing the prayer book and nudging him to his feet. _You can go now._

“Miles?”

Dimly, he realized Scar was talking. Miles bit his cheek, pulling himself out of his thoughts. There was no point in thinking about it anymore.

“Do you need me?” Scar asked, getting up. He tugged the sash on his shoulders off, reverently folding it and putting it away. As the drawer slid shut, the spell was broken. Scar’s room felt like any other room in Briggs.

“It’s time to go,” Miles forced himself to say. His hands curled at his sides, clutching the empty air.

Scar didn’t ask him to specify, only nodding his head. His hair was longer now, brushing his ears, and he looked nothing at all like a seventy-year-old war veteran.

Miles still couldn’t stop seeing the image of his grandfather in his profile. 

-x-

In hindsight, there had been no need to tell Scar to get ready. As expected of a man who’d discarded everything up to his name, he had nothing to pack. The only thing of value he held was a small dagger with a red ribbon on it, a gift from the tiny Xingese girl with an even tinier panda.

“Do you need a pouch for that?” Miles asked, watching as the blade swung back and forth, a dangerous pendulum.

“No, it’s fine.” Scar shook his head, a fond smile on his face as he glanced down. It made him look even softer and Miles wondered how a person could have so many facets, how so many different things could be true about a single human. “She’ll give me one when we arrive.”

So she was going to meet them at Ishval. He remembered the last time he’d seen them together, her small hands squeezing Scar’s tight, laughing brightly even as tears formed in her eyes. Miles didn’t press any further. Changing the topic, he tugged on the collar of his jacket. “I heard the desert nights are cold.”

“Yes,” Scar replied flatly.

When he didn’t elaborate, Miles smirked and raised a brow. “But not as cold as here, right?”

At that, Scar paused and Miles could have sworn the older man’s lips quirked. “No, but our homes got very chilly at night.”

A lack of insulation, Miles had heard. Perhaps that was one thing they didn’t have to keep—while he was used to the cold, he wasn’t fond of it. “Do—”

“MILES!” Before Miles could react, two bulging arms wrapped around him, turning him around and squeezing him tight. His face was pressed into the biggest pecs he’d ever seen and he could feel his ribs crack. “It’s been so long!”

_Not long enough,_ he tried to say, but there was no air in his lungs, not anymore. Darkness crept at the edges of his sight and he kicked Alex’s legs weakly.

Finally getting the message, Alex set him down with a hearty laugh. “You look healthy!”

“Y-yeah,” Miles wheezed, bending over as he caught his breath. Even now, his chest felt constricted. “You…too.”

“Of course!” Alex flexed his muscles and his jacket burst into confetti. Posing like a body builder, he practically sparkled. “I always keep in shape.”

Miles watched as he cycled through a series of poses. These images would be scarred in his brain forever. “Y-you do.”

“And you!” Alex turned to Scar, stroking his chin as he gave him a once over.

Scar tensed. It only made sense, the pair had fought before. Miles only wished he could warn him of the doom he was about to face.

Nodding to himself, Alex held open his arms. “New ally, let us embrace and forget old troubles!”

“Huh?” Scar managed before two arms wrapped around him as well, squeezing the life out of him. At this rate, the Ishvalians would die out before they could start rebuilding.

“We are now brothers in arms!” Alex grinned, swinging Scar around in a wide arc. “And we shall bond on our travels!”

Rubbing his sides, Miles panted, “W-why are you here?”

“Mustang didn’t want you to get lost!” Glistening in the flickering light, Alex beamed brightly. “So he sent me.”

He twitched. Mustang must have been dying for an excuse to get rid of Alex, even if it was only for a few days. Now recovered, Miles straightened up. “That’s not what I meant. Why are you in here?”

“T-that was me.” A nervous guard poked his head out from behind Alex. Looking extremely sheepish, he rubbed the back of his neck and looked everywhere but Miles’s face as he explained. “T-there’s a s-snowstorm. I didn’t want him to die of hyperthermia.”

“A blizzard?” Miles frowned. That didn’t bode well. “How bad?”

“I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face,” Alex boasted, hands on his hips and a proud look on his face. Now that Miles was looking closer, he noticed the blue tinge of his lips, the redness of his ears. “But I survived.”

“Barely.” Worried, the guard glanced back down the hallway. “You don’t think she’d…”

“Get angry?” Miles finished dryly. He winced, already picturing her furious glare. “He would have died. Anyways, it’s too late now.” Even worse, if the blizzard was as bad as that, they couldn’t leave today. Which meant Olivier would have to put up with Alex for the night.

“So, where’s my sister?” Alex asked, shading his eyes with a hand as he squinted down the hallway. “OLIVIER!!!”

Well, they’d already hidden one body in the fortress. What was a second one?

-x-

Sitting in the officer’s mess, Olivier crossed her arms and glared down at her overly joyful brother. It was a testament to her discipline that she hadn’t murdered him the second they’d met. When Alex had rushed in for a happy reunion hug, she had merely sidestepped and walked away, her hand curled around her sword’s hilt tightly.

Reflecting back on it, Miles supposed they were allowed a miracle every now and then. Well, maybe two—as though realizing his luck, Alex hadn’t tried to hug her again after that, merely following after her excitedly. He was something like an eager puppy. An eager, undisciplined puppy. Now he was terrorizing the other soldiers as they ate, heartily giving them one armed hugs and showing off his muscles.

“What is that doing here?” Olivier finally asked, her tone as sharp as her blade.

It was the question he’d been dreading for hours. “Mustang sent him to escort us.”

“Petty revenge for surprising him with Scar, I’m sure.” Olivier snorted, her lips curled into an angry smirk. “Pathetic. I’ll deal with him later.” Looking at him from the corner of her eyes, she growled, “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Miles sighed internally. His last day and he had to deal with this. Right on time, his headache arrived as well, his forehead throbbing as he tried to keep a neutral expression. “The major was going to die of frostbite.”

“Losing a limb or two wouldn’t kill the moron.” Olivier rested her chin on her hand. Her jaw twitched as her brother’s antics grew louder and louder. “It might even improve him.”

If there was one thing worse than Alex, it would be Alex with automail. His hugs would be even harder to survive. Not arguing the point, Miles looked down at his glass that was filled with a heavy ale. “I’m surprised you allowed us to drink.”

“You’re leaving,” Olivier shrugged carelessly, picking up her own glass. Draining the glass with a long gulp, she slammed it on the table. “You can’t endure _that_ sober.”

True enough, though Miles had a feeling that a drunk Alex was worse than a sober one. Taking a polite sip of his glass, Miles watched as Alex sat down next to Scar. Henschel sat on his other side, saying something in a low voice that he couldn’t make out from over here. Whatever it was, Alex perked up even more, if that was somehow possible. They started to chat animatedly.

That was never a good sign.

An even worse one was how they started to compare arms and smirk, looking more and more aggressive with each pose. Within minutes, the pair were clearing up the table—Alex neatly stacking up the plates and Henschel just sweeping them off to the side with a loud clatter. Miraculously, only one plate broke.

Walking around the table, Henschel sat on the opposite side of the table. He curled his right arm, an automail one after the war. Now his voice was deep and booming, clearly heard across the mess hall. “Ready?”

That caught everyone’s attention. Glowing, Alex leaned forward on the table, clasping Henschel’s hand with his own. “Let’s go!”

An arm-wrestling match. Miles supposed he could be grateful that it was something so simple and hassle free. The two men strained against one another, their faces red from effort. An automail arm versus a human arm—it should have been no contest, but the Armstrong family was strange like that. Strong like that.

A grunt escaped Alex’s lips, his arm bending backwards. Despite breathing heavily, Henschel smirked. “Ha!” he crowed. “That all you got?”

“Not even close!” Alex’s jaw clenched. He looked more like a tomato than a human. With a roar, he pushed back and slammed Henschel’s arm on the table.

“Drat,” Henschel spit out, gritting his teeth. He rolled his shoulder, giving Alex a begrudging compliment, “You’re stronger than I thought.”

“As are you!” Alex flexed his arms once more, looking extremely proud. “Again!”

“Like I’d let it end like this.” With a loud guffaw, Henschel got up. “But first a drink.” When Alex looked slightly put out, he scanned the room before his eyes fell on Scar. With a feral grin, he gestured at the older man. “Keep yourself busy with him ‘til I get back.”

Scar looked up from his food and then glanced behind him. Seeing no one, he looked back just in time to find Alex bounding toward him, arms outstretched. “No,” he blurted out immediately.

“Come! A friendly challenge between two former enemies!” If Alex had been shining before, he was practically blinding now. Miles could feel the sparkles flying off him. Unintentionally (and Miles had some doubts about the ‘un’ part), he cornered Scar, blocking his escape routes entirely. “Let’s give it a go.”

“No,” Scar repeated. He looked like he was seriously considering destroying the table. Very seriously.

“Yes.” Regally, Olivier stood up. Resting a foot on the dining table, the frigid ice queen looked down on them scornfully. “Do it.”

“Did you have too much to drink?” Miles muttered, staring at her from the corner of his eyes as he tried really hard not to think about the dirt on her boots getting on the food.

Olivier gave him a disgusted look before turning back to Scar and her brother. “It’s highly amusing,” she answered. She looked like a cat playing with her prey. Scar must have wronged her in some way. “Clear some room for them.”

Unfortunately, it was too late for Scar. Trapped as he was, he had little choice but to sit down at the table and offer his right arm. Miles sent a silent apology to his brother but to be honest, he was curious himself.

“Great!” Alex beamed as he sat down on the other side. Clasping Scar’s hand, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “At the count of three!”

By now, the other soldiers were forming a ring around them and Miles saw more than a few bets made.

“One.”

The two men faced one another; red eyes boring into blue. They leaned forward onto the table.

“Two.”

Olivier took another sip of her drink. The tension was thick enough to cut.

“Three.”

And with that final word, the two men started to arm-wrestle, pushing against one another in a struggle for dominance. Whenever one man gained advantage, the other pushed back immediately. Like a swinging pendulum, neither side gained victory for long. Realizing he was holding his breath, Miles remembered to breathe. No one spoke, everyone watching with rapt attention as the pair grappled one another.

Even Olivier seemed interested, though her foot was still on the table.

“You’re…good…” Alex mumbled, his jaw clenched as he tried to push Scar back.

Scar didn’t say anything, managing a grunt before he forcefully slammed Alex down on the table. For a second, everyone stared, before breaking out into cheers. Money passed hands and this was perhaps the rowdiest the fortress had ever been. Perhaps there was a use for the major after all.

-x-

“Recovering from your victory?” Miles asked as he sat down next to Scar. “How’s the arm?”

The older man was still rubbing his shoulder and he gave Miles a weary look. “I will live.” He glanced warily across the mess, where Alex was now chatting amicably with Patricia. One-sided chatting, at least, though she looked amused by his company. “We are not travelling together.”

Miles sighed. As funny as it was to see Scar so antsy about something, he felt the same. “I’d like that too but we’re stuck with him.”

Scar didn’t say anything, instead picking up his cup and downing the entire thing.

Another funny image. If only Miles didn’t want to do the same. He sat down next to Scar and sighed into his own drink. “It’s only till Central, at least.” He glanced around once more. His fellow soldiers looked rowdy for once, laughing at one another as they stumbled out of the mess. Even Olivier, who was quietly sipping her ale, had a hint of a smile. Well, he hoped it was a smile and not a murderous smirk. “It’s been a while since we had a party like this.”

“I’m not surprised,” Scar muttered, his eyes lowering as he refilled his drink slowly.

Miles watched as the orange-ish alcohol filled into the drink. Viewed through the clear glass, it distorted the world on the other side. His grandfather never drank, a matter that he had assumed to be religious in nature until now. Sometimes it astonished him, how little he knew about his heritage, about his grandfather.

About himself.

“You can drink?” Immediately, he cursed himself, the question coming out clunky and awkward.

Scar looked up at him, the cup halfway to his lips now. He raised a brow, perplexed. “Yeah.”

“I just…” Miles fumbled with his words, not sure of how to phrase this. “I thought Ishvalians couldn’t.”

At that, Scar eyed him. Miles wondered what he saw—an impatient child, a punk teenager, a barely restrained adult. “There’s nothing against it.”

“Oh.” He wondered what else he’d assumed that was wrong. “You were a priest, right?”

“Once upon a time.” Scar lowered his eyes, lost in his memories. He swirled his cup. “Someone told me that her hands were meant for healing and wondered if mine were too. Once, once they were.” Curling his fingers, he squeezed his hand into a tight fist before letting go. “I hope they can be again.”

Change, huh? Now that the war was over, now that the truth was known, there was room for that. Maybe he could change too.

-x-

As usual, the atmosphere was peaceful as Miles quietly slipped into Scar’s room. He pushed the door shut with a click, watching as Scar sat cross-legged on the floor and meditated. His breathing was measured and steady. Eyes closed, Scar’s hands curled lightly into his knees, and with every breath Miles could see the tension leaving his body.

This was no grandfather, asking Miles to join him. No cousin or kin offering their knowledge. All the same, Miles sat down across from Scar, forcing his legs into a half-forgotten position. Resting his palms on his legs, Miles closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, inhaling slowly through his nose. His heart pounded in his ears, his heartbeat calming as he held his breath. Just as slowly, he exhaled.

From across the room, he heard Scar breath out at the same time. In sync, they inhaled once more, and Miles felt closer to his past than he had in years.


End file.
